Fallen
by Fading Into Darkness
Summary: An glimpse into Barbara's mind just after the shooting. [OneShot]


Author's Note: Ones these days I _swear_ I'll write something other than Barbara one-shots. smirk But for now, here's my latest, and slightly darker installment.

**Fallen**

It's funny how the little things have such an impact on us:

The rock that causes the avalanche.

The spark that spreads the forest fire.

The tiny piece of metal that brings down a legend.

It is the tiny, unremarkable things that hardly get but a passing glance, but when fate decides to use them, can tip the scales of destiny and lead us on a path entirely different from the one with which we originally began.

Not that I've ever really been one to believe in "fate" or "destiny". Logic is the drug of choice when it comes to my higher brain functions. Every once and awhile though, when things get rough, or come to one seemingly far-too-coincidental-to-be be-coincidental head, you start to wonder if there really are Fates spinning the threads of life, finding clever little ways to mock your pathetic existence. Funny, in a twisted and strange sort of way I guess. Then again, there is always the chance I'm over thinking the entire concept. After all, thinking is all I've been able to do these days.

You'd be amazed at all the things you think about while you're staring at the stale white of a hospital ceiling, with large amounts of pain meds being pumped through your bloodstream, knowing that everything you were just kissed the end of a gun barrel goodbye.

I'm losing it, I know.

Fading a little more each moment I keep on thinking. Every pessimistic thought that comes to mind is like taking an eraser to my personality. Pretty soon I'll be the poster child of paraplegic has-beens that are like the definition of tabula rasa. The blank slate. An empty shell, if you want to go for the melodramatic angst.

And to be honest, I think I do.

Why shouldn't I?

When I bring myself into some semblance of reality I see the people around me looking for the "Old Barbara" somewhere behind these eyes. Some part of them hopes that she'll glance over with a brave smile and tell them everything will be all right, followed by a witty retort about legs or no legs, she'll be promptly kicking all their asses for even_ trying_ to feed her this poison they dare call food. Then they'll breathe that long awaited sigh of relief that once again, total disaster has been averted. Another baddie with a failed plan. There'll be a hard road to recovery, with the diligence and hard work that everyone expects of her. Everyone will say how well she's handled things. What a strong woman she is. Then she'll be on her way with her respectively clean bill of heath and then...

...then what?

Welcome to the screeching halt and mental retreat.

I lost more than my ability to walk that night. Even more than Batgirl. I lost my power. My total confidence in my abilities and independence.

_Me._

How can there possibly be any kind of recovery from that? Any "life after"?

All I can see is a future of dependence, stolen potential, and an impatient wait until the day this body finally dies.

God, if only Bruce were here. I wonder what he would say if he could see me now. His fallen protégé wallowing in an absolute sea of self pity.

Were he himself-I've heard he's having his own crisis of self these days-it'd probably be something brutally honest, and completely and painfully true.

_"You're only weak because you allow yourself to be."_

That's what he said to me, back when I first started training with him. It's defiantly a Bruce line. An ignore-the-obstacle-and-carry-on-anyway sort of mantra. A sort of mental answer to the mental question of "Why me?" that seems to be stuck on repeat these days. But I never allowed myself to be weak. I never _allowed_ my spine to be severed. I never _allowed_ this life of mine to be ruined.

Did I?

...Maybe I did.

I was arrogant. Cocky. Overconfident. Invincible to the youthful core. Maybe I didn't invite The Joker in for a nice little session of "Shoot the Bat" but it was the decision to be that very symbol that lead me to where I'm at.

I wonder why I'm surprised. It's the price we pay. The price we pay for doing what we do. Risk everything, for everyone. Do or die, and so on.

Isn't that what a hero is?

This future of mine isn't so much hindered by a lack of walking as it is by a lack of purpose. What else can I possibly give that hasn't already been taken? What contribution can this paralyzed redhead make in the fight against all the evil that thrives here in Gotham? Definitely not with a cape and cowl, that's for sure.

Teach, maybe?

Yeah, I'm sure the criminal underground is going to be shaken if I write the next "Combat Puns for Dummies" book.

Definitely not parenting.

I've been told Selena left me guardianship of her daughter Helena. All I have to do is sign some papers, and suddenly I'm Barbara, the Stand In Mom.

Not a chance.

I won't wreck someone else on my way down to rock bottom.

...But then isn't **she** already there?

She witnessed her Mother's murder, and all she has to look forward to until she's eighteen is the "generous" hospitality of the State's foster care system. Then what?

That question again.

See what I mean by over thinking?

With everything as messed up as it is, it's hard to see anything beyond the misery of this hospital bed. Maybe there is a life to be had for both Helena and I in the future. I don't know.

For now, all I can do is stare at this white hospital ceiling and hope that somehow, this fallen hero will one day fly again.


End file.
